I'm the room mom at Bear's nursery school. I have no idea what this yet entails, other than making playdoh. This evening, instead of sitting at watching reruns of "30 Rock" I had to stand by the stove, continually stirring a testy mix of flour, salt, water, oil and blue food coloring. While watching "30 Rock." Well. I'm not going to do it without the distraction of Emmy and Golden Globe-winning TV. I won't say that it's the first time I've used my stove in months, but it is the first time that something I've cooked on it has been blue on purpose. It turned out really well, if I do say so myself. Normally this is the type of task I hate, mainly because I think it's going to be a lot more work then it really is, so I procrastinate and procrastinate and procrastinate until it's too late and I'm racing hysterically through the aisles at Target and spending $30 on eighteen packages of Play-Doh. However, in an effort to work on one of my personal commandments, do what ought to be done, I decided to make it tonight so it's all ready for Wednesday. Surprisingly it didn't take me that long and I didn't mess it up. I mean, I guess that's not really surprising, since I followed all the directions, but it would have made for a better story if it turned out badly.
On the subject of Bear and nursery school: I find it weird and awkward every time I go there and pick-up or drop-off. Now, I was not that young when he was born. He came along right before I turned 27 which if you do the math makes me thisclose to turning 30. But the other moms all look like they waited to start having kids until they were into their 30s. The way the look at me, you would think I was one of the dum dums featured on "16 & Pregnant." (Don't get offended. I don't think all teen moms are dum dums, but the ones on that show and "Teen Mom" shouldn't be trusted with a houseplant, let alone a human child.) They all look at me side-eyed and except for two (one of which is actually a nanny) have all avoided conversations with me. The other mom is really nice though and seems extremely down for drinking margaritas during the day which is a big perk for mom-friendship in my book.
Since it's impossible to fill a post with playdoh and standoffish moms at nursery school (unless you're nominating yourself for admittance to Crazyville) I'll share a quick story about the best teachers I ever had. Don't misread that and think I've said the favorite teachers I've ever had, or the most friendly teachers I've ever had. You would be 100% wrong if you think either of those qualities apply to people I'm referring to. The best teachers I've ever had were a husband and wife who both taught English in my high school. I had the wife for for 11th grade advanced English and the husband for AP English my senior year. Everyone loved them. LOVED. I'm surprised they don't have a fan page or something. However, from the outset it was dismaying clear that I would never be the type of student that they lavished praise on. I was a good reader and a good writer. My problem was that, ugly vintage clothes aside, I was a little too conventional. A little too right of center, if you will. I was also incapable of the kind of ass kissing they loved. And they loved it. They loved the kids that pandered to them. I was too interested in boys, driving around with my best friend PK and making sure that my math homework looked meticulous to stick around being chatty after class. In fact, as people I generally disliked them. I found them pretentious. Maybe I still would but it's hard to say. I definitely think I'm still not cool enough to be "in" with them. Anyway, all that aside they were the two best teachers I've ever had. From them I learned how to actually write in a way that showed some semblance of sophistication. I read good literature, stuff I never would have though to pick up otherwise. I remember the proudest moment of my entire sixteen years of formal education came during the poetry unit of my senior year. We had to read poems and them perform tedious analyses of them that resulted in at least one primal scream and book throwing every night. They took about four hours. One of the tasks was to write a one page essay about each poem. After my teacher graded them he'd share the best one with the class to go over what the writer did well. There were two or three kids that always had essays shared while most of us sat forlornly in our desks wishing we had the magic formula. One day, near the end of my senior year I finally earned a coveted spot on the overhead projector. He also that he wasn't sure he agreed with my premise but found it so well done that he gave it a 5 (or whatever his highest mark was) anyway. I liked that. I actually liked that he didn't agree with my writing. It seemed, and still does, that if people like what you say and DON'T agree with you it's means that you've hit a higher standard than someone who likes what you say and also agrees with you. So wherever you are Mr. and Mrs. I'm-Not-Posting-Your-Last-Name-On-My-Blog, THANK YOU. Thank you for all you taught me, and thanks for that one time we got to color in class and draw pictures of famous people we'd want to have dinner with. Oh. And I hated every minute of Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Well. You can't win everything.
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